Hurt
by silverstrings
Summary: Jon is given another reason to hate humans. [mild JonFelicia]


**Title:** Hurt  
**Pairing:** Jon Talbain/Felicia, if you look close enough.  
**Notes/Warnings:** Character death, angst. I'm going by the Viz graphic novel/manga for this. One of the humans in Felicia and Jon's chapters mentions that Felicia 'comes to visit' him every so often, but I'm judging that she's actually living with him... given that they show her sleeping in his bed and whatnot and when he leaves his apartment in search of a new one, Felicia goes with him. Anywho, enjoy

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_What kind of girl lives with a guy without even asking him if he minds, anyway? And what kind of guy doesn't tell her to leave even when he can barely afford to keep his own mouth fed, much less hers? ...I could have asked, she would have listened._

She even took up part of his bed at night, but he'd never complained aside from the mental chiding inside his own head that never made much sense anyway. And she had this bad habit of licking his cheek or clinging to him, in _public_ no less! What kind of girl did things like that? For once, wouldn't it have been nice to come home to his apartment and be greeted with silence?

Once she was gone, he decided the answer was 'no'.

It didn't hurt at first, no, not really. He'd held her, _watched_ her die in his arms, could think of nothing to say to her even when she smiled up at him and closed her eyes. He didn't cry; Jon never cried. It was something he'd become incapable of doing years ago - before he'd ever met her, before she'd stumbled oh so haphazardly into his dull, depressing life with her rants and auditions and endless list of reasons why humans were good and there was no reason why they - she and Jon - couldn't co-exist with them. He didn't understand why, if humans were so friendly and good-hearted by nature, she stuck around and put up with _his_ churlish attitude.

None of his unasked and unanswered questions mattered anymore. He'd come so close to caving, so close to giving in and permitting the humans she loved so much a chance to know him.

And it didn't hurt, not really, when he made the attempt and he was proven right.

Sticks and stones and guns did indeed break bones, and the names... well, he was used to those by now. He called himself by worse on a daily basis.

It wasn't really... _hurt_ that drove him to changing right there in front of all of them, still clutching Felicia in his arms as though she'd disappear if he did otherwise. It was only because of her face so vivid in his mind that he didn't tear the humans apart - but that didn't stop him from terrifying them into weeks of sleepless nights. Not even their guns stood up beneath fangs and paws and claws and five hundred pounds of solid muscle. At least they ran and left him to deal with her body in peace.

It didn't really hurt when he buried her. It was a small, quiet little cemetery, rather overgrown but in a way that added to its charm. He dug the entire thing by hand - or rather, by paw - and the place was secluded enough that nobody bothered him throughout the process. He'd chosen a place at the very back, where there were plenty of trees and statues of crumbling angels and birds chirping - she would have liked it there.

Cue the rain just as he was finishing up; sore, dirty hands smoothing the last of the dirt down. He couldn't see her face like this, not with her four or five feet under, but yet he wondered if the rain would soak through that much dirt and get her wet. She didn't like getting wet... Maybe he'd just lay there awhile, keep the dirt - and her - dry, with his muzzle lowered to the ground while the rain rolled off his fur and he tried, tried, _tried_ so hard to picture her face in any way but covered in blood.

It didn't really hurt that he stayed there all night, chilled come morning and having to shake the stiffness from his limbs before changing back to his human form. He had to go home now, clean himself up, resume life. It didn't really hurt when he left the cemetery, walked back across town, got many stares at his bare-chested form (his shirts never survived his transformations - thankfully his pants were carefully chosen and did) and bloodied, filthy hands. It looked almost like he'd just, well, burried a body. The stares... he was used to them; why would they hurt?

Everything felt too surreal to hurt at all, even when he went home, showered, crawled into bed and slept for nearly sixteen hours. It didn't hurt when he woke alone, got up, dressed again, made himself dinner and went to work so he could pay his rent at the begining of the following month. Wash, rinse, repeat. Every day after the next, and never once did it hurt.

After all, a world without her wasn't worth being hurt over anymore.


End file.
